


Bring You Home

by burn_me_down



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Action, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt Brock, Hurt Clay, Hurt Ray, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 2, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burn_me_down/pseuds/burn_me_down
Summary: On Clay’s third mission back with Bravo, a fall from a bridge into a river leaves him and Ray injured and alone. While Clay struggles to keep himself and his brother alive, the rest of Bravo continues the mission, finding trouble of their own. | Set after season 2.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, another story. Y’all are never going to be rid of me. *sinister laughter*
> 
> I’m guessing this will be somewhere around 10 chapters. It will feature four different POV characters and hopefully have something for everybody to do, since I love this whole team so much and don’t want to leave anyone out.
> 
> For the purposes of the story, I’m assuming Clay makes it back to Bravo at some point after season 2.

The bridge consists of two cables strung over a gorge with a swift, deep, ice-cold blue river at the bottom.

Literally. Two parallel cables. That’s it.

“That’s it?” Sonny says in disbelief, looking at the cables, then down at the ravine and turquoise water below, then back at the cables again.

“One for walking on, one for holding onto,” Clay replies with exaggerated nonchalance. “What’s the matter, Sonny? You scared?”

That draws the glare he knew it would. “Naw, son. This here is called having a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

Clay exhales, watching his breath coalesce into a thick plume of fog in the chilly air. “Whatever you say, Karl Wallenda.”

Sonny glares harder, apparently of the opinion that _he_ is the only one allowed to hand out nicknames. He’s probably also annoyed because he has no idea who Karl Wallenda is, and therefore no way of knowing how much he might be getting insulted.

 _God,_ Clay missed this. All of it: the cold, the dirt, the burn of tired muscles from hiking for hours straight. The purpose and focus of having a mission to complete. Being surrounded by his brothers in the field. Bickering with said brothers (especially Sonny).

His first mission back with Bravo, he had to keep convincing himself that it wasn’t a dream; that he really had passed all the tests, reached all the recovery benchmarks. Aside from bearing some ugly scars and being a little bit slower, he’s back to essentially the same guy he was before the bomb. Physically, anyway.

Now on his third mission back with the team, he feels like he’s still adjusting, trying to find his place again, remember who he’s supposed to be.

“Cut the chatter,” Jason orders, focused and maybe a hint annoyed. “There’s a family whose lives depend on us making it there in time. We need to keep moving.”

The Rodriguez family is American, originally, but has spent a couple decades running a mission in a small, remote village not far from the Chinese border. For most of that time everything was fine, but lately unrest in the area has been growing, and anti-American sentiment along with it. At present, the Rodriguezes - parents and three children - are in the hands of a rebel group that wants to ransom them in exchange for a list of demands that will never, and can never, be fulfilled.

If their demands aren’t met, the group has set a hard deadline for the family’s execution, to be broadcast live on the internet.

Bravo should be able to get there before then, but they’re cutting it a little closer than they’d like.

Without further banter, the team starts across the ‘bridge.’ Jason goes first, then Sonny; Trent; Brock, who has to keep his balance despite having a dog strapped to his chest; Ray; and finally Clay.

For all his teasing of Sonny, Clay silently agrees with him that the bridge is kind of a nightmare. The cables aren’t strung as taut as they maybe once were, and the amount of give in them leads to some truly unnerving swinging and swaying - especially when the wind picks up. Which it of course does when he’s maybe halfway across.

Clinging to the top cable, Clay tries not to be quite so acutely aware of the drop to the water below. He slows his breathing, focuses on the next shuffle forward, on maintaining the grip in his cold-numbed fingers.

He makes it another couple feet toward the far bank. The wind dies back, lessening the swaying. Clay breathes a sigh of relief, risking a glance up to see that most of the team has already made it to the safety of the solid ground on the other side.

He slides his foot forward. With zero warning, his right leg buckles. His feet slip off the lower cable; his fingers lose their grip.

He falls.

Twisting midair, Clay manages to hook his right arm over the lower cable. His fall stops with a jolt that sends a sharp flash of pain through his shoulder, that leaves him swinging wildly, grappling for some kind of stability.

His shoulder throbs. His arm feels numb. There’s no damn way he’s gonna be able to pull himself back up - or make it the rest of the way, hand over hand.

He completely forgets about Ray until he hears the yell.

“Clay, hold on!”

With the bottom cable jolting violently back and forth, Clay isn’t sure how the hell Ray has kept from falling, let alone managed to move back toward him, but here he comes. “Hang on there, brother,” he calls. “Gonna pull you up.”

There’s no way. If he tries, he’ll just fall too. No point in them both going down.

Clay attempts to tell him that, but Ray completely ignores him. Edging as close as he can, he lets go with one hand, contorting his body to reach down and grab at the loop on Clay’s vest. 

He tries to lift. The cable swings wildly.

Inevitably, Ray loses his one-handed grip on the top cable, and they both plummet toward the river.

The drop is far enough to be dangerous, but not far enough to allow them to twist into an ideal landing position. Clay slams into the water half on his side. It’s like hitting a brick wall.

The first thing he feels is the impact, forcing the breath from his lungs as he sinks. The second is the crushing, all-encompassing cold. Almost instantly, his body goes numb, pain swallowed up in ice.

Lungs burning, Clay struggles to orient himself. His head breaks the surface and he gasps a frantic breath.

Where the hell is Ray?

The river is swifter than it looked, current already carrying him quickly downstream, but the water is shockingly clear. He catches a glimpse, a flash of color that doesn’t belong, and struggles through the water to drag his teammate’s face above the surface.

Ray’s eyes are closed. Clay can’t tell if he’s breathing. For now, the best he can do is keep his head above water until he can get them both to the shore.

The first rule of swimming in strong currents is not to fight, because that’s a quick way to get tired and then dead. Clay hooks his right wrist through Ray’s vest, leaving his legs and good arm free to propel them gradually toward the bank, working along with the current. He can’t really feel his limbs but can at least tell they’re responding, which is the important thing.

By the time Clay finally drags himself and his teammate out onto the shore, dripping and shaking with cold, they’ve been carried God only knows how far downstream.

Far enough to have crossed the border into China? Probably. Which means they’re in _deep_ shit.

There’s no time to worry about that now. He rolls himself over and fumbles to check Ray’s neck for a pulse, hissing in frustration when his numb fingers make it impossible to tell what he is, or isn’t, feeling. He lowers his cheek over Ray’s mouth, sending out a silent prayer to whomever might hear it, and nearly collapses in relief when he feels the puff of a strong breath.

So, unconscious and hurt, but alive. Clay can work with that.

He needs to get them into shelter, and he needs to get them both warm.

The shore they emerged onto is made up of fine black gravel. Where the gravel ends, large slabs of stone lean up against each other, leaving sheltered hollows between. Further still from the river, the boulders give way to sloped hillsides that rise into arid, fragrant pine forest.

Forcing himself up on numb, wobbly legs, Clay snags the back of Ray’s vest, makes it a couple steps, and falls hard on his knees in the sharp gravel. He ends up crawling the rest of the way, dragging his teammate behind him into the shelter of the boulders. Once they’re out of sight and shielded from the knife-edged wind, he clumsily strips off both his and Ray’s soaked gear and outer clothing. Setting it all aside, he sighs in resignation and snuggles down close to Ray. Awkward or not, they need to share body heat if they’re going to not die of hypothermia.

“God, I’m glad Sonny isn’t here to see this,” Clay mumbles, wincing at the blurry slur of his own voice.

As the cold-induced numbness starts to wear off, the pain creeps back in. Clay’s shoulder throbs, but not as badly as his side. In contrast to the otherwise pervasive chill, his side feels hot and swollen in a way that makes him sweaty and deeply nauseated, and the shivering only makes the pain worse. He breathes slowly through his nose, trying not to puke, knowing instinctively that doing so would _suck_ right now.

He should look at Ray’s pupils to see if he’s got a head injury. He should try to start a fire. He should check to see if they still have a working radio between them.

Clay tries to push himself up, makes it a couple inches, falls back with a groan, and decides moving isn’t gonna happen anytime soon.

He closes his eyes, curls his good arm around Ray’s shoulders, and passes out.


	2. Chapter 2

The fall happens fast. One minute Ray is leaning down, trying to pull Spenser back up; the next instant, they’re just gone.

Jason takes a few deep breaths, then keys his radio. “HAVOC, this is One. We’ve lost Bravo Two and Bravo Six.”

_“Bravo One, say again?”_

“Bridge we were told about turned out to be just a couple of parallel cables. Two and Six fell from it into the river and were swept downstream.” He hesitates. “Saw Bravo Six surface briefly before he went out of sight. Didn’t see Bravo Two.”

The river is swift and the border isn’t far downstream. There’s a good chance Jason’s guys have ended up in China, in which case retrieving them would be a nightmare even if Bravo _didn’t_ still have an urgent mission to complete.

 _“Copy, Bravo One. How do you want to proceed?”_ Blackburn asks, calm and steady.

Jason breathes. He thinks about the pictures Mandy put up on the screen: the missionary family, the big-eyed children. “How long until the deadline for the execution?” He asks.

There’s a brief pause. _“Right at three hours from now. Estimate it’ll take you one to reach the village.”_

Gritting his teeth, Jason grinds the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Mandy still thinks it’s not a bluff? They’re gonna go through with it?”

Mandy herself responds. _“Absolutely.”_

Jason closes his eyes.

Somewhere downriver, his 2IC - his _best friend_ \- and the kid Bravo just got back are alone, probably hurt, maybe dead or dying.

In a village an hour away, an innocent family is set to be murdered with the world watching, and Jason and what’s left of his team are the only ones with a chance to stop it.

He thinks, _I’m sorry._

He says, “We are Charlie Mike to the village. Need an alternate exfil plan. Probably can’t get the family across this bridge, especially not if they’re banged up.”

“On it,” Ellis replies immediately. Jason knows her well enough to pick up the hint of guilt and regret in her voice. It’s not really her fault; due to its proximity to the border, aerial photos of the area are hard to come by. Her local asset assured her there was a bridge, but failed to mention exactly what sort of bridge it was.

Conversation with HAVOC finished for the moment, Jason looks at the rest of his team. Brock is crouched down by Cerberus, both hands buried in the dog’s thick fur. Sonny is staring at the river like he can will it to give back what it took. Trent steadily meets his team leader’s gaze, pale but calm as ever.

Not one of them tries to argue with Jason’s decision. They know the score. No way they’re abandoning a family to die just so they can risk starting a war by crossing into China to look for their guys. The loss hurts, the uncertainty maybe even more, but they have a job to do.

If Spenser and Ray are alive, they’ll have to find their own way.

The rest of the trek to the village is cold and quiet. As they hike, Jason’s brain keeps circling back around to the fall, and to the fact that it shouldn’t have happened.

He didn’t see how the first part of it went down. By the time he looked up, responding to Sonny’s yelp of alarm, Spenser was already hanging from the bottom cable and Ray was on his way to try to help. Jason can’t stop teasing it apart in his mind, trying to make it make sense.

No, the bridge wasn’t ideal, but it shouldn’t have been too much for any of them to handle. Sonny made it across just fine. Hell, Brock made it across just fine with a dog strapped to him. So why didn’t Spenser?

Maybe a strong gust of wind, but from where Jason stood, he hadn’t felt one. Not at that moment.

The one possibility he doesn’t want to entertain keeps popping up in his head. Spenser isn’t long back from devastating injury. He passed all the tests and got cleared to return, but this is the most physically strenuous mission he’s been on since he came back. The first time he’s had to hike for this long, in terrain this rough.

Did that goddamn bomb finally manage to take him out after all, and Ray with him?

By the time what’s left of Bravo reaches the small town nestled at the edge of sparse pine woods, the sun is lowering into the beginnings of a long twilight.

During the mission briefing, Mandy assured them that if their presence gets discovered before they’re able to secure the family, the captors won’t hesitate to move up the time of execution to ‘immediately.’

Basically, it’s go in quiet or fail completely. Losing two of their best shooters - hell, _both_ of their primary snipers - doesn’t exactly help. They’ll have to make it work anyway.

The village is small and eerily quiet. As dusk settles over the world, scattering a few bright stars across the canopy of sky, the wind stills and the air takes on a sharp-edged bite.

Almost none of the houses have lights on. Jason wonders if the villagers have fled - or worse. By all accounts, they’d loved their missionaries. Might have tried to defend them.

The farther Bravo moves into town, the more grateful Jason is that they pushed for Ceberus to be included on this mission. The dog helps forewarn them of sentries, whom they can then take by surprise and eliminate quietly.

They reach the missionaries’ house. According to all the photos and videos released by the captors, some of which were quite recent, that’s where the family is being held.

The tangos are clustered most heavily there, maybe half a dozen in the front room alone, visible through the picture windows. Once Bravo makes entry, quiet will quickly become impossible. They’ll just have to try to take down all the captors before they get enough time to even think about offing their hostages.

Bravo kicks down both doors and goes in shooting.

Cerberus streaks from room to room, a flurry of teeth and fur, sowing panic and chaos that the tangos don’t have a chance to recover from before getting taken down by suppressed fire.

Soon enough, the action is over. The house is clear.

And there’s a big problem.

The parents are here, bound together in a back room, terrified but alive and apparently more or less unharmed.

There’s no sign of the kids.

In every picture, every video, the entire family was together here, at this house. There was no reason to assume they wouldn’t still be.

Jason and Trent quickly untie and ungag the parents. The father’s first words, jumbled with panic, are, “Do you have my boys? Are they safe?”

Jason leans back on his heels. He looks at Trent, then back at the parents. “Do you know where they’re keeping them?”

The man shakes his head. “They took them. We don’t know where. They wouldn’t say.” His chest heaves. Tears stream down his face, and he gasps sharp gulps of air. “They’ll kill them. Oh, God. They’ll kill our boys.”

Brock drops to a crouch in front of the mom. “Hey, Laura,” he says in a soft, even tone. “Were your boys taken from here? From this house?”

Laura Rodriguez, who is pale but composed, nods.

“Okay, that’s good. Listen, this is Cerberus, and he can help us find them. We just need something to help him get the scent. Clothing, bedding-”

The woman lurches immediately to her feet and stumbles into one of the bedrooms, emerging seconds later with a worn teddy bear.

Brock takes it from her and squeezes her shoulder. “That’s great, Laura. That’s perfect. Thank you.”

Once Cerb gets the scent, Brock and Jason go after the boys while Sonny and Trent guard the parents. Jason hates splitting up with his team already down two guys, but hauling the traumatized couple along with them just isn’t an option.

The village sits silent. In the near-total darkness, the streets and alleys are pooled in deep shadow. Trouble could be lurking anywhere. Two operators and a hair missile haul ass anyway.

Was the firefight at the house loud enough to alert whoever’s guarding the kids? Jason isn’t much of a praying guy - that’s Ray’s department - but he sends out a silent plea to the cosmos that it wasn’t.

Cerberus brings them to a squat house on the edge of town. There are no visible guards; the windows aren’t lit; all looks calm. Jason’s skin prickles.

It’s finally dark enough for NODs, so he and Brock snap them into place before making entry.

There’s exactly one guard inside. When they come through the door, he’s standing in the dark, holding one of the children in front of him, gun to the kid’s head, using the small body as a shield.

_Shit._

They can’t even communicate with the fucker. That’s Clay’s department. Clay was supposed to be _here_ for this, dammit. During the briefing, Jason thought to himself how lucky they were to have their resident translator back for this mission, and now he’s gone.

There’s a lot of shouting. The little boy cries behind the gag. Brock gradually edges to the side, trying to get a clear shot without risking the kid, while Jason keeps the tango’s focus, trying to communicate the gist of the message: _Let him go or you die._

The tango backs up. He’s starting to panic. He yells something, gestures with the pistol.

Brock takes the shot.

Jason moves forward to grab the kid, pulling him from his captor’s lax grip. Brock gets the other two up and they take them outside, away from the mess and the sharp tang of blood, to untie them and remove their gags.

The little one clings to Jason’s neck, sobbing silently. The other two, a little older, are scared but brave. They nod when asked if they’re okay. The oldest asks, voice trembling, “My mom and dad?”

Brock puts a gentle, reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They’re okay. They’re safe, I promise. We’re gonna take you to them.”

The kid closes his eyes and draws a sharp gasp that doesn’t quite turn into a sob.

Jason doubts the entire area is clear. If the rebels’ backup isn’t here, it might be coming. They need to get the hell out of the village and into the cover of the trees ASAP.

Once he gets everyone out of the open and into the pine forest, sheltered in the quiet dark, Jason calls in to ask Mandy about that exfil plan. As expected, she’s found a way.

There’s an abandoned logging road she thinks is still passable, and likely unknown to the rebel group. With helos not an option due to the proximity to the border, she’s sending in ground transport, along with support to help cover the loss of Bravo Two and Six.

It’s a fair hike, but doesn’t require crossing the river. They can make it.

Jason glances over at the family, huddled together, holding each other. “HAVOC, once we get the family to transport, we’re headed back to the river.”

 _“Copy that, Bravo One,”_ Blackburn replies, steady and not a bit surprised. _“We’ll send a second truck so you can exfil after your search. I don’t need to tell you to watch how far you go.”_

“Good copy, HAVOC. We’ll be careful.”

Jason looks around the clearing at his guys. Brock and Sonny have each picked up a small child while Trent works to keep the parents and older kid calm and ambulatory. Brock has wrapped his jacket around the little boy in his arms.

It’s been a long day already. Everybody’s tired, but there’s no time to rest. The faster they get the family to safety, the sooner they can go back for their boys.

“Move out,” Jason orders, and they walk on into the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

When Ray claws his way back to awareness, the first thing he feels is pain.

His head hurts like the worst hangover he’s ever had, with an unpleasant undercurrent of nausea. He breathes slow and deep until he gets a handle on the headache, then takes stock of the rest of his body. The only notable injury other than the likely concussion seems to be to his left ankle, which feels swollen, with a sharp throb that probably indicates a break.

Ray eases his eyelids open a little to find that, wherever he is, it’s dark but for a hint of ambient moonlight. It’s also cold. His exposed skin is chilled and he’s shivering a little, though he expects the cold would be hitting him much harder if not for the furnace that seems to be attached to the right side of his body.

Gingerly, trying not to move too much lest he anger his head, Ray feels around until he locates the mop of curly hair pressed up against his shoulder. Yeah, that’s definitely Spenser.

Just like that, he remembers: the bridge. Falling. Then … nothing. Spenser must have pulled him out of the river.

“Not really my type, Clay,” he mumbles, then frowns when he doesn’t get a response. “Spense?” He jostles the kid’s shoulder gently. Clay is obviously still alive, and his breathing seems steady. He must have been relatively able-bodied if he was able to pull Ray out of the water, get them both into some kind of shelter.

A second, firmer jostle finally produces a slurred groan … and then Spenser nestles in closer, sighs, and goes right back to sleep.

Of _course_ he’s a cuddler. Why wouldn’t he be?

Ray blinks up at the handful of stars he can see in the narrow strip of visible sky. His head throbs. He wonders what he ever did to deserve this.

 _You insisted Jason pick the kid is what,_ his brain tells him wryly.

He does have to remind himself of that sometimes, when he’s being forced to endure yet another round of _Spenser thinks he’s smarter than God and definitely better at everything than Bravo Two is._ If Ray hadn’t pushed so hard for Clay, Jason might have taken someone else. Maybe Sarkisian or McAdams would have ended up being less of a pain in the ass.

No, Ray has never actually regretted it, not really. Spenser is _theirs,_ and he’s loyal and talented as hell, and he is slowly but surely growing into the operator Ray knew he could be while watching that cocky kid on Green Team - or at least that was the trajectory Clay was on before Manila happened.

The bomb, and everything that came after, seems to have tempered him in ways Ray is still figuring out. He hopes this quieter version of Clay isn’t also a less confident one. Under all that insolence, there’s always been a surprisingly deep capacity for self-doubt. It wouldn’t serve anyone well, especially not Spenser, for that to take root and grow.

Spenser mumbles something in his sleep, and it occurs to Ray suddenly that Naima would love this scene. She would laugh, snap half a dozen pictures, and then laugh some more. Neither he nor Clay would ever live it down.

Ray misses her, with startling intensity given that they’ve only been apart a few days and are accustomed to much longer separations than this. He blames it on the concussion making him emotional; on the fact that his and Naima’s relationship has been stronger than ever since Ray finally pulled his head out of his ass, which just makes it harder to be away from her.

Outside the shelter, the world is silent and still. Ray obviously isn’t getting rid of Spenser any time soon and would probably freeze if he did, so he gives up, goes with it, and falls back asleep.

When he wakes again, it’s dawn, and Clay is no longer attached to him like a leech. The resulting chill is probably what woke Ray; the shivering jolts his ankle, leaving him even more miserable and nauseated than from the concussion alone.

Spenser, moving slowly and stiffly, ducks back under the shelter of what Ray now sees are massive slabs of stone. He has put most of his outer clothing back on, though it still looks damp.

Clay breaks into a relieved smile when he sees that Ray’s eyes are open. “Hey! How you feeling?”

“Headache.” Ray’s voice comes out raspy and a little slurred. “Ankle…”

“Yeah, it’s broken.” Spenser holds up a couple of sturdy, fresh-cut sticks. “Good news is that it’s not an open fracture. Gonna splint it.” He gives Ray an apologetic look. “It’ll hurt.”

Ray sighs. “Yeah. I know.”

When moving to kneel by Ray’s ankle, Clay winces and scrunches his eyes tightly shut, just for an instant, an unmistakable tell that he’s in pain. He covers it well, but not quite quickly enough.

“You hurt?” Ray asks.

Spenser fidgets with the makeshift splint, not meeting Ray’s gaze. “Think I maybe cracked a rib or something, and strained my shoulder. It’ll be fine.”

Uh-huh.

Before Ray can muster the energy to argue further, Clay injects him with morphine, which is very nice but makes Ray feel even more like his thoughts are trying to move through molasses.

“Gonna need to stay quiet,” Clay tells him. “I think we’re in China, and we don’t know who might be around.”

Ray knows he needs to stay quiet even if they’re _not_ in China. Getting captured by the rebel group would likely prove very fatal.

He feels the pain when Spenser splints his ankle, but it’s muffled and distant, as though wrapped in cotton. Once that ordeal is over, Clay helps him back into his damp shirt and jacket; thankfully, Ray still has his pants on, because they never would have gotten those back up over the ankle.

Spenser says that his radio appears to still work, but he figures they’re likely out of range. “And if we’re in China…” He trails off.

“Yeah, probably better wait till we make it further back upstream.” Ray wishes they had some way to determine for sure where the border is, but they’ll just have to give it their best guess and try real damn hard not to be wrong.

They need to get moving ASAP, but Clay hesitates, staring down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose roll of gauze. Even concussed and slightly high on morphine, Ray can pick up the angst that’s just pouring off his teammate.

“Spit it out,” he slurs.

Spenser looks up. “I’m sorry. You’re hurt because of me.”

Ray starts to shake his head, thinks better of it. “None of that. You warned me off. I made my own choice. End of story.”

“But-” Spenser cuts himself off, sighs, lets it go. He helps Ray up, taking most of his weight with another stifled wince.

They’re neither one in any condition to be rock climbing, which means their initial path has to take them perpendicular to the river, into the dirt-sloped, pine-wooded hills, before they can start moving upstream. 

Progress is painfully slow - literally. The morphine helps at first, but once it starts to wear off, Ray’s head throbs and every shuffle forward jars his broken ankle. He breaks out in a cold sweat, and can’t help but notice that Clay, despite the mild weather, is sweating too and looks paler than usual.

Once they make it into somewhat milder (or at least less rocky) terrain, they shift course and move parallel to the river. They’ve been underway for maybe an hour when they hear the distant gunfire.

It’s coming from somewhere upriver, and maybe also further off into the hills. Hard to pinpoint, as far away as it is. Wherever it’s coming from, it’s one hell of a firefight.

Ray looks at Spenser. “You think that’s our boys?”

“Hard to tell for sure,” Clay says. “But yeah, probably.”

The shooting goes on, and then there’s an explosion - frag, more than likely - and it stops.

If it weren’t for the wind, they probably would never have heard what follows the firefight.

A sharp gust brings with it a scrap of sound: a hollow, distant, wailing howl, as raw as an open wound.

Spenser’s eyes are wide. “Was that…”

Ray tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. “I think,” he says, “I think that was Cerberus.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, what did y'all think of that season finale? WARNING, SPOILERS FOLLOW: I really liked it overall, though I'm not thrilled about what they did to Mandy (which I will continue ignoring for the purposes of this story), or about Clay and Stella hooking back up. My favorite scenes were probably Clay reuniting with the team (FINALLY), Ray reuniting with Naima, and Sonny telling Brock to go back to not talking. Laughed out loud at that one.

Sonny shifts the sleeping child on his shoulder and tries not to think about anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

Somewhere out in the cold night, two of the people who mean the most to him are in trouble, maybe hurt or dying, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it at the moment. Right now, he can walk, keep an eye out for trouble, and carry a worn-out little boy who’s been through hell.

The parents wanted to carry their own kids, of course, but they’re both exhausted, unsteady on their feet, and more than a little banged up. Brock and Sonny are a hell of a lot less likely to fall in the rough terrain, so they’re carrying the little guys, both of whom have conked out. The oldest boy is still awake and walking, bravely keeping up while holding his mama’s hand.

Trent takes a sudden, sharp breath. Sonny turns just in time to see the boys’ father, David Rodriguez, go down like he’s been shot.

There’s been no sound, no sign of any danger at all, but that doesn’t keep Sonny from raising his gun, scanning the dark woods while holding the sleeping kid tight against his shoulder.

Trent drops to his knees at the man’s side, rolling him into the recovery position. He clicks on a light to get a better look at what’s going on.

The oldest boy, the only one still awake, has both hands pressed over his mouth, eyes big and scared. His mom leaves his side to kneel by her husband. As Trent looks up and starts to ask, “Is he-” She’s already saying, in a blank, stunned voice, “He’s epileptic. His meds - I - I didn’t even think about…” She trails off. “He hasn’t had a seizure in years. I forgot. How could I _forget?”_

Brock tries to tell her it’s okay. She shakes her head and reaches out to touch her husband’s face. He’s already starting to come out of it, limbs losing their rigidity, eyes blinking open. The episode lasted maybe two minutes, at most.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Trent tells Laura. “What medication was he on?”

“Topamax. He hasn’t had any in … however long they had us for.”

“Topiramate? That’s a common one. We’ll make sure there’s some waiting for him. We’ll get him right back on it. He’ll be okay.” When she glances away again, he reaches out to pat her wrist. “Hey, look at me. You’re doing great, okay? You’re all safe and alive and that’s what matters.”

She finally nods, taking a wobbly breath. “It’s just that I should have known. The way he was crying? That’s not like him. It was aura. _Shit,_ I’m so stupid. I should have known.”

“You kind of had a lot going on,” Brock reminds her gently.

Right about then, the oldest boy scuttles up close, checking to make sure his groggy, confused father is still alive. Satisfied that he is, the boy turns to his mother and says in a child’s loud whisper, “Mama, you said a bad word.”

She blinks at him a few times. “Well, several of the disciples were sailors,” she finally says, “so I’m pretty sure God can handle a little well-earned swearing.” When her son starts to open his mouth, she quickly holds up her hand. “That does _not_ mean you’re allowed to say it.”

The little boy looks at her with round, serious brown eyes. “Shit,” he declares solemnly.

His mom covers her mouth to muffle laughter that quickly turns hysterical. She pulls her son into her lap, partly so she can press a kiss to his tangled curls, and probably also partly to hide the fact that there are some tears happening along with the laughter.

Sonny shifts the sleeping kid to a more comfortable position. He’s itching to get going again. This little delay has cost them time that Ray and Spenser might not have.

David Rodriguez makes a slurred, questioning noise when Trent helps him up to a sitting position. He’s awake, but doesn’t seem quite capable of forming words yet. Once they get back on the move, Trent ends up half-carrying the man until his legs more or less start working again.

The hike to where the exfil trucks are waiting feels like it takes half the night. The oldest Rodriguez boy is obviously exhausted, but shakes his head silently when Jason offers to carry him. He and his mom then have a conversation that Sonny suspects is her trying to convince him to accept the help and him insisting he’s fine, but Sonny can’t be completely sure because they’re talking entirely in the the local dialect.

These folks might be American citizens, but Mandy said they’ve lived in country for nearly 20 years. Listening to the mother and son converse rapid-fire in the local language, Sonny wonders if going back stateside will feel anything at all like going home to them.

From the kids’ perspective, especially, their home might be lost to them now - but at least they’re all alive to make a new one.

Hopefully not at the cost of two good men’s lives.

Finally, finally, Bravo hands off the family to transport and is free to head back to the river.

The little boy Sonny was carrying rouses enough to blink solemnly and wave with a chubby hand before his mama lifts him into the truck and settles him in her lap. Watching the whole family nestle close together in the brief moment before the door closes, Sonny figures they’ll be all right, wherever they end up.

Every remaining member of Bravo is exhausted, and as they move toward the river, the terrain grows more challenging to navigate in the dark, even with NODs. Eventually, Trent steps in a brush-hidden hole and twists his ankle. He gets right back up, but with a hint of a limp that he can’t hide.

Reluctantly, Jason calls a halt so they can settle down in a sheltered grove of pines and get a little sleep before dawn.

As soon as the sky starts to pale in the east, they get moving again. Trent grimaces from time to time and continues to limp a little, but he keeps up. They’ve all fought through pain plenty of times, and Trent knows his own limits. If he thinks he’s okay to continue, Sonny trusts that he is.

They’re nearing the river, but haven’t reached it yet, when Cerberus alerts them to trouble.

The rebel group has established a camp at the bottom of a ravine that’s well shielded by thick pines and huge cracked boulders that likely long ago rolled down from the rock face atop the hill to the west. The camp is so well concealed, in fact, that Bravo might have stumbled right into the middle of the tangos if not for the advance warning provided by their hair missile.

It doesn’t take more than a cursory glance at the camp to determine that this isn’t a fight Bravo wants. They’re outnumbered, and the last thing they need is another delay. They silently backtrack to a safe distance, then alter course to the hillside with the most cover. They’ll sneak past and continue on their way with no one the wiser.

Or that’s the plan, at least.

Thing is, they didn’t really anticipate the tangos _also_ having a dog. They especially didn’t plan on the wind shifting direction at just the wrong time, carrying their scent down to the camp.

The cacophony of barking from the camp is quickly followed by yelling … and then all hell breaks loose.


	5. Chapter 5

The good news is that Clay is pretty sure he and Ray aren’t in China anymore, if they ever were.

The bad news is that they figure that out by realizing they’ve got company, and not of the friendly sort.

After the firefight and the howl, there’s no further sound from upriver, so the two of them get moving again as quick as they can. They know there’s a strong possibility they might be headed toward trouble, but it’s a chance they’ll have to take; if the rest of Bravo is upriver, then that’s where they need to be too.

Turns out trouble finds them a whole lot faster than expected.

When the tangos spot them, it’s maybe 20 minutes after the firefight, and they’re stumbling along doggedly, following a path of relatively level ground at the bottom of a slope. Ray’s morphine has long since worn off, and he tenses every time his ankle gets jarred, which is pretty much every time he takes a hopping step forward with Clay’s support.

As for Clay, well, whatever’s wrong with his side continues to eat away at his focus. He has a high tolerance for pain, as is required to become a Navy SEAL and especially a tier one operator. Also, he recently survived having both of his femoral nerves damaged by shrapnel; he and agony are old friends by now.

It isn’t just the pain alone. Whatever this is, it’s making him feel _awful._ There’s a deep, throbbing pressure in his abdomen. He’s cold and hot at the same time. His hands shake. Every time he tries a sip of water, it comes right back up. The heaving is _not_ fun, so eventually Clay learns his lesson and just stops trying to drink.

He suspects he’s got some kind of internal injury, but if anything were hemorrhaging too badly, he’d already be dead. He’s not, so all there is to do is keep moving.

Though he’s out of it, his situational awareness in the tank, some vague, dulled instinct drives Clay to look up toward the top of the slope. He sees the two tangos moving along the ridgeline at pretty much exactly the same time they look down and spot him and Ray.

Adrenaline clearing away the haze, Clay instantly finds the nearest cover - an old, gnarled pine growing up against a dirt bank - and drags Ray behind it a second before the shooting starts.

Ray grits his teeth and groans when Clay lowers him down against the trunk of the tree, but he shakes his head no when Clay asks if he’s hit.

Breathing slow and deep through his nose, Clay kneels behind the tree, draws his Glock, and wills his hands to steady. The tangos have stopped shooting for the moment, but they’re drawing closer. Based on the language they’re speaking, they’ve got to be members of the rebel group that took the Rodriguez family - which means Bravo Six and Bravo Two aren’t in China, but are in big trouble anyway.

As far as Clay can tell, there are only the two tangos. At least for the moment.

“Stay here,” he tells Ray, probably unnecessarily.

Clay’s teammate blinks up at him, foggy and confused. The concussion is hitting him hard. Between that and the broken ankle, there’s no way he can hold his own right now, so it’s up to Clay to protect him.

And he will, to his last breath. This is all his fault; his weakness got them here, nearly killed his brother, might still. Clay may not ever be able to make up for that, but he can sure try.

When Clay darts out from behind the cover of the pine, ducking low and panting through the pain, both tangos take the bait.

He outpaces them at first, using trees and rocks and dirt banks to keep them from getting a clear shot, but they aren’t busted up like he is and quickly start closing the distance. Clay picks a place to make a stand, manages to take down the first with a rushed shot, then takes a bit more time and hits the other center mass. Both fall, and the woods are suddenly silent.

Clay knows he needs to get back to Ray. He takes a step, staggers, braces himself against a tree, and leans over to heave even though there’s nothing to bring up. 

Ray. He has to get to him. The shots could draw other tangos, and he can’t leave his brother undefended and alone.

Panting, trying not to throw up again, Clay takes another couple steps and gets blindsided.

He really should have thought to make sure that first tango was dead. Under normal circumstances, he would have.

The only thing that saves Clay’s life is the fact that the tango doesn’t hit him directly in the injured side. Even so, the pain is so all-encompassing that the world goes white for an instant, and he comes back to himself just in time to get an arm up and block the knife that’s plunging toward his neck.

The tango is bloodied and wild-eyed and, at the moment, stronger than Clay. The knife presses inexorably downward.

Clay gets a hand to his Glock, double-taps the bastard in the chest, and kicks him off.

“Yeah, let’s see you get up from that,” he says, or tries to say, but his tongue is going numb and the sounds drip together. 

He rolls over, retches again, brings up a little blood this time. Things are getting worse, and Clay understands distantly that he’s in serious trouble, but it doesn’t matter. He has to find Ray and get him to safety. Then and only then can Clay rest. Or die or whatever.

If that firefight from earlier ended as badly as it sounded, then there’s a chance the rest of Bravo might not even be here anymore. They might have had to exfil or … or worse. If that’s the case, if their brothers are gone, then the closest safe place is days away on foot, which might as well put it on another planet.

Clay pushes the thought away. He’s got enough definite trouble already; no sense in borrowing theoretical trouble.

After enduring the last of the gagging, awash in the sort of misery that leaves you exhausted just from existing, Clay drags himself to his knees, then to his feet, and staggers back to where he left his teammate.

Ray is still sitting against the tree, broken ankle stretched out in front of him. He looks up when Clay approaches. His eyes seem a little clearer, and worry is evident in his voice when he says, “Spense, you okay?”

“I’ll have to be,” Clay deflects, leaning against the pine for support. “Tangos are down, but we need to move. Might be others coming.”

Getting Ray to his feet, supporting his weight so he can move forward without further injuring his bad ankle, is one of the most physically difficult things Clay has ever done - but he does it. They move. They go forward in the hope that help is waiting not too far away; in the knowledge that their brothers will not abandon them unless there’s no alternative.

They go forward, but they don’t make it more than another 20 minutes before Clay has to start looking for a place to put Ray. He eases his teammate down against a rock shelf, looks at him through dimming eyes and manages to say, “I’m sorry.”

This time when Clay goes down, he knows he won’t be getting back up.


	6. Chapter 6

Once the dog starts barking, the hostiles’ camp upends like a kicked anthill. Jason and his team have just enough time to shelter behind a massive slab of stone before all hell breaks loose.

They’re outnumbered, but their cover is good and so is their vantage point from the higher ground, so they hold their own despite the hail of bullets raining at them like brimstone from heaven.

While Jason, Trent and Brock engage the tangos who are actively shooting at them, Sonny sneaks - surprisingly stealthily for a big, barrel-chested, unsubtle Texan - around the boulders and down to the edge of the camp where a host of reinforcements wait to replace the tangos Bravo takes down on the hillside.

After Sonny throws the frag that eliminates most of the camp in one fell swoop, and after he picks off the squirters, and after Jason and the boys on the hill take care of their business, there’s sudden quiet that makes Jason’s eardrums feel hollow. He braces himself for just an instant, letting the surge of adrenaline wash over him and recede, and then opens his mouth to give the order to continue toward the river.

Before he can, Cerberus starts making a sound Jason has never heard from him. In fact, it takes Hayes a confused, semi-panicked second to realize the noise is coming from the dog.

It’s a howl that’s almost a scream, the sound of an animal in intractable pain.

Jason’s first thought is that Cerberus got hit in the firefight, that he’s dying, that they’re going to lose the canine teammate who means so much to all of them.

The reality, as it turns out, may be worse.

Jason and Trent make it around the boulder at the same time from different directions and both stop dead at what they see.

Cerberus, still wailing, is standing protectively over the still body of Brock, who is face down in a pool of blood.

“No,” Trent says as he scrambles to kneel at his teammate’s side. “No. No. No.”

He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s saying it.

Cerberus stops howling and moves to the side, giving Trent space to work. The dog’s body language is tense and unsettled; he faces outward, guarding his handler as though the worst hasn’t already happened.

“Trent?” Jason hears himself say. All he can think about is how Nate lay dead two feet away and they didn’t even realize he’d been hit until they saw all the blood, and now Brock … now Brock is … 

Trent doesn’t respond. His hands shake a little as he carefully rolls Brock over.

It’s the strangled gasp at his side that lets Jason know Sonny has arrived. The Texan leans over, hands on his knees, and watches as Trent presses down hard on the wound in the side of Brock’s neck.

Trent looks up, and the expression on his face - focused and intent, not hollow and lost - makes Jason suddenly able to breathe again.

“He’s alive,” Trent says. “It missed the artery, but he’s already lost a lot of blood, and I need to get it under control. Give me a hand.”

There’s a flurry of frantic motion: bandaging, maintaining pressure, tracking vitals. Brock is terribly pale, making his dark hair and beard stand out by contrast. He doesn’t wake up, doesn’t respond even when Cerberus nudges at his limp hand, but his heart keeps beating and he breathes.

 _Please,_ Jason thinks, watching his teammate’s still face. _Please, please, please._

There’s a chance they’ve already lost Ray and Spenser, which would be unbearable: Jason’s best friend, his 2IC, his compass; Jason’s kid, his protégé, his little brother. Gone, both of them, in an instant.

They can’t lose Brock too. He won’t let it happen.

Trent gets the bleeding mostly stopped, but says Brock needs a transfusion ASAP. He needs a hospital, needs better medical care than they can give him on the ground in the woods. Trent is confident that the bullet missed arteries and spinal cord, but depending on what else was nicked, surgery might be in Brock’s future.

Jason sits back on his heels and looks at the blood on Trent’s hands, at the way Cerberus whines and licks Brock’s fingers. He thinks about how far away their exfil truck is, how long it will take them to get there, and how dangerous a journey that is likely to be.

Spenser and Ray might already be dead, in which case there’s nothing Bravo can do for them except bring their bodies home. They might be fine, in which case they could likely hide and hold out until Mandy can get another team in to retrieve them. They might be in China, in which case Bravo isn’t authorized to go after them anyway.

With those two, there’s nothing but questions and possibilities, an entire universe of maybes to sort through. Brock is _here,_ right now, and he’s badly hurt and he needs help as soon as he can get it.

As the leader of a tier one team, Jason has decades of experience in making the hard decisions and living with them afterward. He isn’t afraid of staring down impossible choices and being forced to pick an option in a situation where none of them are good. Leaders in his position can’t afford to be afraid of that.

Even so, he is still only human, and there have been a handful of times when even he has been haunted by a call he made. Letting Nate talk him into taking the extra time to look inside that safe? That one will stay with him forever.

He feels himself now teetering on the precipice of another of those monumental, life-changing decisions that might hound him every night for the rest of his days.

Brock’s life, versus the possibility of finding Spenser and Ray.

Sometimes all you can do is save the person you can, right now, and hope the rest will take care of itself.

Jason takes a deep breath. Sonny, who is holding Brock’s head still while Trent works, looks up at his team leader with a drawn, stricken face, like he already knows what’s coming.

“Time to go,” Jason says, in a voice that sounds normal and steady, as though his heart isn’t being pulled out of his chest. “Let’s get our boy to the hospital.”


	7. Chapter 7

Ray’s brain is fuzzier than Jameelah’s favorite stuffed bunny, and the pain in his ankle is relentless, stabbing deeper every time he moves. He’s so out of it that it takes him much longer than it should to realize how rapidly Spenser’s condition is going downhill.

The kid is still staggering along, still managing to stay on his feet and support some of Ray’s weight, but he’s wobbling an increasingly crooked path and he has started making noises under his breath that are almost whimpers. Ray manages to blink away the blur in his vision well enough to see that Spenser is horribly pale, and his face is vacant and drawn in a way that reminds Ray uncomfortably of Manila.

“Clay, what’s goin’ on?” He asks. “Where’re you hurt?”

Spenser doesn’t seem to hear. He staggers a few more steps, then jerkily bends and eases Ray down to sit against the curved shelf of rock that forms the bottom edge of the nearest hillside.

Clay looks down at Ray with glazed, distant eyes. When he says, “I’m sorry,” there’s blood in his mouth, staining his teeth.

He falls and doesn’t move again.

Ray’s heart pounds in his ears. He drags himself over to the kid. “Spenser? Clay? Come on, brother, please.”

When he gently shakes Clay’s shoulder, Spenser makes a faint noise in the back of his throat but doesn’t wake up.

Ray’s foggy mind goes terribly blank, because what is there to do now? He can’t walk, not without Clay’s help. Maybe he could crawl, or find something to use as a cane and just hop along, but he can’t do either of those things while dragging Spenser - at least not for long - and he isn’t leaving the kid. However this ends, it ends with them together.

Faint yelling from the other side of the ridgeline kicks Ray’s pulse rate up a notch. 

A bit further down, the rock shelf Ray is sitting against curves over, forming a sort of shallow cave. It’s far from perfect cover, but it would at least conceal them from anyone standing at the top of the slope looking down.

The problem, of course, is getting there.

Ray ends up crawling, dragging Spenser with him, inch by miserable inch. It hurts like hell and feels like it takes forever, but he finally gets them both into shelter, hoping the absence of yelling and/or shooting indicates that their little journey went unnoticed.

Maybe they can stay here, unseen, until their brothers come for them. Ray has to believe rescue will be coming. He can’t let himself waver in that conviction.

Jason won’t leave them to die. Jason will come.

It’s then, thinking about Jason, about where Bravo might be right now, that Ray finally remembers the radio.

They lost a lot of their gear in the river, but Clay briefly mentioned having a radio that still seemed operational. They planned to try it once they got farther upriver, once they felt sure they weren’t in China and thought they had a better chance of being in range.

Then things went to hell, and they started getting shot at and Clay collapsed, and Ray completely forgot about the radio until now.

Ray’s hands tremble as he digs out the radio and turns it on. “Any Bravo element, this is Bravo Two.” His voice comes out slurred and unsteady, but comprehensible. “Bravo Six is down and I’m not ambulatory. Requesting immediate assistance.”

He waits. His eyes burn when the only answer is silence.

Maybe Bravo isn’t here. Maybe the team never came back and that firefight had nothing to do with them. Maybe the radio is broken and isn’t transmitting even though the light came on when he flipped the switch.

Ray is about to try again, hoping this time someone will answer, when he hears deep, throaty baying. It’s a ways off still, but unmistakably growing closer.

He’d love to let himself believe that it’s Cerberus, that Bravo is coming for them, but Ray has been working with the hair missile for long enough to know the sound of the dog’s bark. That’s not Cerb. Which means he and Clay are in deep shit.

So much for the pipe dream of just hiding until they could be rescued.

Ray pulls Spenser into his lap, wincing when the movement jars his ankle. Clay makes that faint almost-whimper sound again, then goes still and silent.

Curling his arm protectively around the kid’s chest, Ray props his back against stone. Glock at his side, he digs out all his and Clay’s spare mags, puts them where they’ll be easy to get to, then holds the gun ready.

His head aches. He wants to cry, because this wasn’t supposed to happen again. Not so soon. Not like this.

He nearly died, and his brothers came for him, and he found his way back to his faith. Back to Naima. Back to the man he’s meant to be. He was supposed to get to be that man for more than a few months. Be a father to his babies, a husband to his wife.

 _I’m sorry, baby,_ he silently says to Naima, to Jameelah, to RJ.

And Clay? Well, they almost lost him on that street in Manila. Thought they would. He fought so hard to survive, and so hard to make it back to Bravo, and it’s not right for it to end like this, three missions in.

Clay is supposed to live. He’s supposed to grow up more, become a team leader one day, settle down and get married and have a few towheaded kids.

“Last stand, Spense,” Ray tells him. “Wanna wake up and help out?”

Spenser breathes but doesn’t respond. His skin is cool to the touch. A thin line of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

Ray tries to swallow past the lump in his throat. He pats Clay’s chest. “Okay, brother. You just sleep. I’ve got you.”

He hopes Spenser is aware enough to know that he’s not dying alone. That Ray doesn’t blame him for this, even though Clay blamed himself.

“Together, right, Bravo Six? You and me.”

The baying grows closer. Ray braces himself, hoping his vision is clear enough to hit what he aims at. He prays: _Blessed be the Lord my strength, who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle._

The tangos are following the scent trail at a jog. It takes them just a little too long to realize they’ve reached the place where the trail ends.

The first one goes down before he knows what’s hit him. The second gets a hand to his gun, but never has a chance to aim it. The third fires a single shot that pings off stone, spraying rock chips into the side of Ray’s face, before he too falls.

In the silence after, one of the tangos moans and tries to crawl, then goes still.

The dog turned tail and ran into the woods as soon as the shooting started, which is good. Means Ray doesn’t have to kill it too.

He takes a deep breath. The loud crack of the shots in the enclosed space has made him so dizzy he has to close his eyes for an instant to try to make the world stop spinning.

Despite the head injury, his aim was true. He tells God, _Thank you._

It won’t last, he knows it won’t, but he bought them a reprieve. How long a reprieve is yet to be seen. More tangos will be coming, and these ones won’t likely get caught by surprise.

Ray tries the radio again. He thinks, _Please._ He doesn’t remember starting to cry, but there are tears on his face.

When again there’s nothing but silence, Ray puts the radio down and pats Spenser’s shoulder. “Gonna be okay, brother,” he whispers, voice hitching. “All gonna be okay. You’ll see.”

The radio crackles.

Faintly, Jason’s voice says, _“Bravo Two? Ray, is that you?”_


	8. Chapter 8

After the firefight, it takes the remnants of Bravo a while to get moving.

While Trent finishes bandaging the wound securely enough to feel confident that the bleeding isn’t going to start back up, Jason and Sonny throw together a litter to make it easier to carry Brock. Turns out they don’t get far with him before his blood pressure starts tanking and Trent tells them to stop.

“We’re not getting him to the truck without a transfusion,” the medic says grimly. He has with him a single bag of blood and some IV fluids, which he thinks should be enough to stabilize Brock for transport.

The woods are quiet with no sign of trouble, but nonetheless, Sonny’s skin prickles with unease at being out in the open. He finds a sheltered, hidden spot, a hollow between two massive slabs of stone, with just enough room for them to squeeze into while Brock gets some of that lost blood replaced.

The transfusion is mostly done by the time the radio crackles. One moment there’s quiet, and the next there’s static in their ears and broken fragments of a voice, none of the words clear enough to make out.

Sonny freezes in place, still holding Brock’s hand, and looks up at Jason. “Boss?” He breathes.

Jason sits back, running a hand over his face. “Bravo Two? Bravo Six? Come in.”

Another ripple of static, then nothing. Silence.

The three of them look at each other: Sonny, who begged not to leave, but gave in because he can’t bear to watch Brock die; Jason, who made the hard call because that’s what leaders do; Trent, whose hands are still covered in his best friend’s blood.

Jason reports in to HAVOC and receives the expected response from Blackburn: He isn’t going to tell them how to proceed. It’s Hayes’s call.

Sonny says, “Jace,” but can’t figure out how to continue the sentence. He doesn’t even know what he wants Jason to do.

If their brothers are calling them for help, they can’t just _leave_ ... but they can’t let Brock die, either.

Jason looks at Trent. “How long has he got?”

Trent exhales. “Transfusion bought him some time, but … not a lot.”

“Enough time to see if we can make contact with our boys?”

Trent hesitates, looks down at his patient, then nods.

“You sure?” Jason asks bluntly. “I need you to be sure.”

The medic lifts his head, meets Jason’s gaze steadily. “I’m sure.”

Jason exhales. “Okay.” He continues trying to get a response, continues to be met with nothing but silence.

After a few more minutes of nothing, they hear the shots.

Glock, sounds like. Coming from downriver, and not terribly far. Sonny fixes the direction in his mind, and tries not to think too much about the possible implication of those shots paired with the silence on the radio.

Jason calls for Bravo Two and Six, his voice tight with urgency. There’s nothing, and then there are a few more crackles, broken syllables, faint scraps of words. Sonny listens, and he looks down at Brock’s face, and he thinks, _Please._

He needs for his brothers to live. All of them. He needs there to be a way for that to happen.

Crackles, static, and then a voice: slurred and broken, but clearly belonging to Ray Perry.

_“-Say again, need immediate assistance. Any Bravo element. Please.”_

Bravo Two sounds like he’s crying. Sonny’s heart freezes in his chest.

Jason answers, but there’s no response. Is Ray’s radio broken? Can he not hear them?

Face pale and intent, Jason tries again. “Bravo Two? Ray, is that you?”

 _“Jace?”_ Ray’s voice is shaking.

“Yeah, brother. It’s me.”

Sonny closes his eyes, his entire body going weak with relief.

Bravo Two is alive and they’ve made contact with him. The team hasn’t lost its heart. Not today.

Of course, Sonny’s relief is immediately followed by a sharp stab of worry about the voice they haven’t heard. Apparently he’s not the only one, because Jason says, “Bravo Two, sitrep? Is Six with you?”

 _“He’s…”_ Ray trails off, sounding lost and unsteady, his voice driving a blade of pure terror into Sonny’s chest. _“He’s here, but he’s down. Won’t wake up. He’s real cold, Jace.”_

Sonny looks up sharply, sees his own worry reflected on Trent’s face. He sends out a plea to any deity that might be listening: _When we find Ray, please don’t let him be holding a body._

Jason lets it go, because there’s really nothing they can do for Clay from here. “The shooting a minute ago, was that you?”

 _“Yeah. Had some contact…”_ Ray’s voice dissolves into static, disappears.

“Are you safe right now? Ray? Dammit!” Jason scrubs a hand over his face, turns back to Trent. “Is there any way to buy Brock enough time to let us go retrieve Spenser and Ray?”

Trent opens his mouth, closes it, then gives a decisive nod. “Yeah. I’ll donate to him.”

Jason gives him a look. “You sure?”

“We got any other choice?” Trent asks, a little impatiently. “We can’t leave them and we can’t let him die. We’ve got the same blood type, me and him. You two get our boys, and I’ll keep Brock alive.” He holds his leader’s gaze. “I won’t let him die, Jace. You make sure Spenser and Ray don’t die either.”

Hayes nods, then reaches out to squeeze his medic’s shoulder. “Trent. You’re the only one keeping Brock alive right now, so you do _not_ go too far with that transfusion. You understand me? You pass out, and he’s all alone. Don’t let that happen.”

“Copy that,” Trent says, crouching to dig into his med bag. “Now _go.”_

Leaving Cerberus to guard Trent and Brock, Sonny and Jason go, moving as fast as they can in the direction of the shooting. They keep trying the radio, but the connection is well and truly down.

That has to be what it is. Just the connection.

They find Ray sitting under an overhang, propped up against stone. His eyes are glazed and distant. He registers movement and starts to go for his Glock, but a sharp word from Jason stills him. “Jace?” Ray breathes, and his face crumples.

“Stand down, Bravo Two. We got you,” Jason tells him, leaning down to gently press his forehead against his best friend’s.

Sonny kneels and reaches out to touch Spenser, who is lying ashen and still across Ray’s lap. The kid’s skin is cool and his color is awful, but he’s got a pulse and his chest is rising and falling.

Sonny sucks in a breath and sits back on his heels, hands shaking.

“What’s wrong with Spenser? He get hit?” Jason pats his 2IC’s face. “Ray, come on. Stay with me.”

With obvious effort, Ray focuses. “Uh, don’t know. Didn’t tell me he was hurt. Just started puking blood and went down.”

Well, shit. That don’t exactly sound good.

In unspoken agreement, Jason takes Ray and Sonny gets Spenser. His gut clenches with unease, because not knowing what’s wrong with the kid makes it a hell of a lot harder to carry him without making it worse. He just assumes internal injuries and does the best he can.

Spenser is completely limp. He doesn’t respond to being moved, though it probably ought to hurt him. Just goes on breathing too shallow.

By the time they make it back to the others, Brock’s color is better and Trent, though still conscious, is pale and shaky. When he sees Spenser and Ray, he pushes himself up, wobbles a little, and goes to check on them.

After diagnosing Ray with a broken ankle and a concussion, the medic gently prods Spenser’s abdomen, and his face goes very still in a way that makes Sonny feel cold to his bones.

“Yeah, he’s bleeding internally,” Trent says. “Don’t know what’s causing it, but he needs a hospital. Fast.”

After that, there’s not much to do but get their asses to the truck as quickly as possible.

Trent assumes he’ll be the one taking Brock, but Jason tells him, “Uh-uh. You’re woozy as hell and you’ve got a sprained ankle. You’re not carrying anybody. Help Ray walk. I’ve got Brock.”

Cerberus spends most of the trek to exfil going back and forth between Jason and Sonny, whining hopefully and nudging first Brock’s dangling, motionless hand, then Clay’s, his distress growing as he fails to get a response.

They make it to the truck. Everyone is still breathing. No one has bled out.

Sonny feels like he holds his breath for the entire bumpy, miserable drive out to the LZ where they’ll be met by the helo that will airlift the injured members of Bravo straight to the nearest competent hospital. If Sonny is on edge, a pale, clearly exhausted Trent is even worse off, pinballing back and forth between patients like he thinks somebody will die if he turns his back for more than a few seconds.

Turns out he’s not all that far from right, because Brock stops breathing just minutes before they reach the helicopter.


	9. Chapter 9

After Clay collapses, the world breaks apart into kaleidoscope fragments.

Flash: He’s being carried. His belly hurts, a searing, awful pain that makes him want to claw out of his own skin, but he can’t open his eyes or move a muscle to try to escape.

Flash: There’s the sound of a truck engine, a jolt as the vehicle hits a bump. Clay’s mouth is full of blood. He thinks, _Help me._ He thinks, _Let me die._

Flash: Someone is yelling, begging Brock to _Breathe, dammit, please just breathe,_ and Clay tries so hard to move, to see what’s going on, but-

Flash: He’s in a helicopter and someone is patting his face and there’s the pinch of an IV in his arm. _Brock,_ he tries to say, and _Ray,_ but he chokes on blood instead of words. They turn him, and it hurts but the pain is distant now, and he gets his eyes half open to see Brock with a tube sticking out of his neck.

Flash: A ceiling, bright lights, unfamiliar faces. Someone presses on Clay’s belly and the agony explodes, and he screams, and then … 

Then there’s nothing.

When he next comes up out of the dark, it’s slowly, in a drugged haze. His team isn’t there. Unfamiliar voices talk to him, tell him he’s had surgery, that he’s going to be fine. He tries to ask about his team, but goes back under before he can.

Eventually Clay stays awake long enough to put a few pieces together. Most of Bravo has been sent back stateside. He’ll be transported there as soon as he’s stable enough. Brock is somewhere in the same hospital and is still alive, but that’s all the information they’ll give him.

Clay is miserable. He hurts, and feels perpetually thirsty but also so nauseated that he can’t drink anything. He misses his team. He wants to talk to Ray. Sometimes he loses track of where he is and what happened to put him in the hospital; wakes up reaching for his right thigh, only to feel the sharp spike of pain in his abdomen instead.

Time stretches, then skips, and he surfaces halfway through transport back to the States. Brock is there too. Clay tries to call out to him, but the plane jolts and all that comes out is a whimper, so they inject him with something that drops him back into the aether.

By the time Clay finally wakes up reasonably clear-headed and manages to hold onto awareness for a while, he’s in the Navy hospital back home, and Jason is sitting at his bedside, halfway through a pile of paperwork.

Clay lies there for a while, watching as Hayes flips back and forth between forms, growing visibly more frustrated. When his team leader finally swears under his breath, Clay says, in a weak, rusty voice, “That good, huh?”

Jason flinches. Papers fall to the floor, but he ignores them in favor of leaning forward to put a hand on Clay’s wrist, which is surprising given that Hayes isn’t usually exactly the touchy-feely type. “Hey, man,” he says quietly. “How you feeling?”

Clay thinks about that. His abdomen throbs, as does his shoulder to a lesser degree, and he’s still in the permanent state of thirst he’s come to accept as his new reality, but at least he’s not in agony. He settles on, “Could be worse.” Follows it up with, “Brock? Ray?”

“Ray is gonna be fine. Ankle didn’t need surgery. He’s still having some headaches, but those should ease up with time.” Jason’s expression is uncharacteristically soft when he adds, “He says you saved his life.”

The stab of guilt hurts nearly as bad as the actual physical injuries, because Ray’s life shouldn’t have needed to be saved in the first place.

Clay looks away, clears his throat. “And Brock?”

Jason exhales. “He’s gonna be okay too. But it was close.”

“He quit breathing,” Clay says.

Jason’s eyebrows go up. “You remember that?”

“Yeah. What happened?”

“He got shot in the neck. Trent saved him, stopped the bleeding, gave him a transfusion, but the swelling eventually compromised his airway. We had to do an emergency trach on him right before we got to the helicopter.”

“Shit,” Clay breathes. “But he’s gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, thanks to Trent. No hypoxia, no permanent damage. He’ll have one hell of a scar, though.”

Clay smiles a little. “He’ll be proud of that.”

Jason huffs a faint laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

Clay shifts, winces, fiddles with the slightly frayed edge of the sling they’ve put his right arm in, presumably to stabilize the shoulder while it heals. He realizes he hasn’t even bothered to ask how bad the damage is, what his chances of full recovery are.

It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

“Jace…” His voice cracks. Jason gives him water to sip. Afterward, Clay clears his throat, looks down, tells himself to just get it over with. He takes a deep breath. “I’m, uh, I’m not coming back to Bravo.”

Jason goes very still.

Clay forces himself to raise his head, look his boss in the eyes. “My leg gave out on the bridge. That’s why we fell.”

Jason gives a slow nod. He doesn’t look surprised.

“I damn near killed your 2IC,” Clay says. “I’m sorry for that. It won’t ever happen again.”

“Because you’re quitting,” Jason says matter-of-factly.

Clay instantly wants to argue. Wants to insist he never quits on anything that matters to him; that medical retirement isn’t the same as giving up, especially when it’s been proven necessary. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and just nods.

Jason doesn’t say anything for a minute. He leans down, gathers all the paperwork he dropped, arranges the papers neatly in his lap. Clay’s skin hums with tension.

Finally, Hayes sets aside the paperwork and says, “I’m gonna ask you to do a couple things, okay? I want you to not make a decision this big while you’re drugged up in the hospital. You need to be clear-headed, and you need to be absolutely sure you’ve taken the time to think it through.”

That seems fair. Clay nods, feeling certain his mind won’t change.

“The other thing I want you to do,” Jason tells him, “is talk to Ray first, because this concerns him too. How you think it’s gonna affect him to know you quit the team because of him?”

“But it’s _not_ because of him,” Clay counters. “Not really. Could’ve been any of y’all. He just happened to be the collateral damage. This time.”

Jason shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re talking it through with him, and that’s final.” Voice softening, he adds, “Ray knows a thing or two about the consequences of operating while injured, so you’re gonna discuss it with him. Got it?”

“Copy that, boss,” Clay says, and then feels a stab of actual physical pain at the realization that Jason won’t be his boss for much longer.

He does what Jason asks and lets it go for the time being. The decision looms in the back of his head like an oncoming train, while he outwardly pretends everything is normal. None of the others even think to ask him about the fall, seeming content to simply be glad both he and Ray survived it.

Clay finally gets around to having that talk with Ray after he and Brock have both been released from the hospital.

It’s near dark, and the entire team is hanging out in Blackburn’s yard. Sonny and Trent are sitting next to Brock, who still isn’t allowed to talk much. When Sonny teases him about barely being able to tell the difference, Brock just smiles and snuggles up closer to his very clingy dog.

Jason is inside, probably talking to Eric, and Ray is sitting by himself with his healing ankle propped up. Clay eases over to take a nearby seat, trying not to jar his recently repaired shoulder or still tender abdomen too much.

Ray lets the quiet linger for a minute, then says, “I hear you’re thinking about leaving Bravo.”

Clay looks straight ahead. “Yeah.”

“Gonna need you to not do that, brother. Not without at least trying to rehab first.”

Clay shakes his head. “I already did that, and look where it got us. You almost _died,_ Ray, because of me. Bravo almost lost you. Naima, Jameelah, RJ, they almost lost you because I shouldn’t have been in the field. I can’t let that happen again. I won’t.”

Ray looks at Clay with an almost unnerving intensity. “Yeah, Spenser, I almost died, but I didn’t. You know who _did_ die? That little boy who was killed by the grenade I threw with a bad shoulder.”

Clay opens his mouth, closes it, can’t come up with a single thing to say.

“When his parents woke up this morning, their son was dead. And when they wake up tomorrow morning, he’s still gonna be dead. Every morning, forever, their baby is in the ground. Because of me.” His voice shakes a little, but he goes on. “I got no choice but to live with that, to go forward anyway, to somehow come to terms with the fact that I _knew_ I shouldn’t have been in the field. You? You’d been cleared. Had no way of knowing you weren’t ready.”

Clay clears his throat. “But-”

“Clay. You worked your ass off to come back to Bravo. Made it back faster than anybody expected. And yeah, maybe it _was_ too fast. But that doesn’t mean you can’t come back at all.” Ray waits until Clay meets his gaze before adding, “We almost lost you, and it hit us hard. You aren’t that easy to replace. Don’t make us unless there really isn’t any other choice.”

Clay takes a shaky breath, lets it out, and finally nods. He remembers what he told Jason, just before the bomb: _I feel like I’m lucky enough to be a part of that, so I’m gonna give it all of me._

Ray is right. No matter how much he fears failing, fears watching one of his brothers die and knowing he’s the reason why, he can’t just leave Bravo without at least trying. Without giving it everything he’s got.

“Okay?” Ray prompts.

Clay looks at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

Ray smiles, raises his plastic water bottle. Clay taps his own against it in a crinkly toast, and they sit back in the quiet, listening to their brothers laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all so much for reading and leaving kind words! All that’s left now is the epilogue.


	10. Epilogue

It feels like it takes forever for Ray’s ankle to finish healing and his headaches to stop. By the time he finally gets cleared for duty, Brock has already been back on Bravo for weeks, and Spenser, who’s going through rehab for his shoulder plus a second round of it for his leg, is hopefully not too far from returning as well.

After getting officially cleared, Ray heads home in an unshakably good mood. It’s a gorgeous day, blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds, and all the colors look impossibly bright. Ray tells Naima the news, then takes the kids to the park so she can have some down time to relax. They play with such vigor that RJ ends up passing out at the dinner table that night.

Later, after cleanup and dishes and Jameelah being sent off to bed, Ray and Naima curl up on the couch together, have a spirited discussion regarding which movie they should watch, and ultimately end up just talking instead.

At a lull in conversation, Ray says casually, “Saw Clay today.”

“Oh yeah?” Naima keeps her tone neutral. “How’s he doing?”

Naima likes Spenser, always has. Something about his uncanny ability to look 12 years old when he’s sad or hurt always brings out the mom in her, and after the bombing, she developed a bit of a protective streak towards him. He’s also the most recent reason why she came way too close to losing her husband. Having both those things simultaneously be true is … complicated.

“Good,” Ray tells her. “Shoulder’s pretty well healed. Think he might be ready to come back soon.”

“And the leg?”

“It’s good, baby.” When she doesn’t respond, Ray pats her hand. “Hey. The kid has gone above and beyond. He wants to be absolutely sure, so he’s put himself through hell to prove he can handle it, and he can. What happened on the bridge won’t happen again.”

Naima holds his gaze for a few seconds, then nods. “Good. You looking forward to having him back?”

“I am. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s _our_ pain in the ass.”

“What’s a pain in the ass?” Jameelah asks sweetly from behind them.

Naima gives Ray a look. Through valiant effort, he buries a smile and manages to look contrite instead. “A grown-up phrase that you shouldn’t say. Why aren’t you in bed?”

She looks at him with the tragic eyes of the woefully neglected and explains, “I didn’t get a story.”

Naima raises her eyebrows at her husband. “Oh, _no._ That sounds like an emergency that can only be handled by Senior Chief Ray Perry.”

By the time Ray makes it into Jameelah’s bedroom, she’s sitting cross-legged atop the covers, her small face absolutely alight with anticipation. At the sight of her, Ray is gripped by the familiar surge of love so powerful it’s almost frightening.

It took a while before Ray was able to look at his kids without seeing the face of a little Afghan boy. He does still think about that sometimes, knows he always will, but as he’s made his peace with God and used his talents to prevent other families from grieving _their_ children, it intrudes less and less on happy moments with his kids.

Ray settles next to Jameelah, raises his arm so she can slide under it and nestle against his side, and begins.

“Once upon a time, there was a prince who set out on a long journey. Before he got to the castle where he was going, he came across a dangerous bridge. It was so narrow that he ended up falling off into the water.”

“Was the prince hurt, Daddy?”

“The prince was hurt a little bit, but it was okay because he had a friend with him to take care of him.”

“What was his friend like?”

“Well, his friend had golden hair and-”

Jameelah bounces, dark eyes sparkling with excitement. “Was it a princess?”

Ray chokes, coughs, and then spends a few seconds making a strangled sound that is trying not to be laughter. “Yes, baby. It was definitely a very pretty princess.”

“Was the princess brave?”

Laughter fading, Ray looks at his daughter. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, the princess was real brave.”

“Did the prince and the princess make it home?”

Ray nods. “They did. It took a while. They ran across some mean trolls, and the prince couldn’t fight them off because he was already hurt, so the princess had to handle it and got hurt too. But they were brave and didn’t give up even though it was hard, and their loyal knights came looking for them and took them home, where they lived happily ever after. The end.”

She claps her hands. “Yay! But that was too short, Daddy. Can I have another story?”

“It’s late, baby girl. Another time.”

She sighs deeply. “Okay. But I want the next story to be about the prince and the princess too, okay?”

He looks at her.

_Once upon a time, the princess was a little shit and questioned the prince’s abilities in the field…_

_Once upon a time, the princess got in trouble for going outside the wire and getting plastered..._

_Once upon a time, the princess got blown up and damn near died..._

“I’ll try to come up with something,” he promises, and tucks his daughter into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all! As always, thank you all for reading.
> 
> I have a few very busy weeks coming up, so this will likely be the last thing I write for a while. I'm sure I'll be back eventually, though.


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